


You Over the Universe

by CarmineKnight



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bad Coping Methods 101, Bad Ending, F/F, Murder-Suicide, Psychological Trauma, Rose Stop That's Bad, Sadstuck, Suicide Attempt, Trauma, Vague Second Person Stream of Consciousness Sort of Thing, important character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-08 00:26:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14093013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarmineKnight/pseuds/CarmineKnight
Summary: "You would torture and kill your friends. One by one. Until one of them could stop you, could bring you to an end."Or, in which during their comfortable Earth-C lives, Kanaya is killed in a complete freak accident, and Rose Can Not and Will Not ever cope with that.





	You Over the Universe

Disbelief. Disbelief and ice were the two sole components of your body the moment you heard. You were so consumed by shock that you blink and somehow, it's been two days. Memories of condolences, tears, faces you know telling you comforting things, holding you, pass through your consciousness. You're certain there will be a funeral. You will stay right here in the room you shared.

You close your eyes, blotting out the off-white ceiling with darkness that quickly fills up with abominations. You open them again and more days have slipped by without your consent. Time begins to slow to a more palpable speed, and you eventually summon the willpower to sit up. Your throat is unbearably dry, lips cracked and painful. You summon more strength to, at the very least, pour yourself a cup of tap water and to take a few sips of it.

There's a knock at your door. The amiable, concerned call of a loved one from the other side. You turn and walk out of the room. You have nothing to tell her.

Sometime later you check your phone to find about a dozen missed calls and nearly a hundred messages waiting for you. As you read through it all and your cognitive function continues to return, taking all of the words in, sinking into your head, your heart, your gut, you begin to feel violently ill. You feel something coming an  


Cold tile. The acrid scent of vomit consisting of little more than bile. At least you made it to the toilet. Almost. The smell brings with it much older memories. More painful ones. No. You can't think about _her_ too. But you do. And thinking about it makes you wonder why you haven't dredged the cellar dry. Better get to work on that.

You're at least regaining fluids this way. As if that was your intention. You're still hardly aware of your own body, chasing blackout after blackout. You haven't even noticed how the soft paunch of your belly, once nurtured from a lithe childhood physique to a healthy amount of padding in the abundance of food and laughter in your life after the game, now hangs lower, emptied.  How long has it been without her already? A literal eternity. Less than the blink of an eye. You can't think about that you have to stop thinking about that NOW.

You can't remember precisely what it was that resulted in your first death. If it was organ failure, starvation, poisoning, or suffocating on your own bile. Or maybe all of them. When your renewed body completely materializes, it's almost overwhelming how _normal_ you feel again. Disgustingly, abhorrently normal. Insultingly normal when your entire heart has been gouged apart and your metaphysical being split straight in half. She was your other half. More than that. She was absolutely everything and you don’t even exist anymore.

Before it settles into your shattered mind that suicide is an utter waste of time, it's not long at all before you've died again, fumbling in your kitchen for the steak knife and wasting little time before you watch an impossible fountain of red spring forth as you sever all the way down into your aorta. You don't feel a thing.

It takes several more desperate, mindless, broken attempts (successes) before it sinks in. Pesky conditional immortality. This just won't do. Indignancy flares up. You lash out. Bottles break. Vases shatter. Cabinets collapse and you scream and stomp and kick and ignore glass shards in your feet. That's when you begin to feel _them_ again  - that creeping presence in your mind. That dark, friendly, enveloping. Empowering. Comforting. Encouraging. You find little reason to fight it.

How many days more? More knocking, more calls. You blast your phone to dust with the flick of a wand, and then your computer. Something wells up in you and your vision blurs, black blotting out your vision as ink pours down from your eyes. You make a sobbing sound before screaming at nothing, at the nothingness. You glide from one end of the house to another, blasting holes into framed pictures from the past decade. You boil over and wail and curl up until you awake in a black puddle with burning eyes. You lift yourself up while looking down into the murky pool, taking little note of the deep gray pallor of your skin.

You're still boiling. You need her. You absolutely need her. You need to die. It doesn't take long before your building blind wrath finds a solution. You have to destroy everything. You have to commit atrocities. You have to ruin the utopia that multiple universes were sacrificed just to bring about. You have to torture and kill your friends. One by one, until one of them can stop you, can bring you to an end. You have to become the most horrific entity imaginable to chase down a Just death for yourself. You will tear this universe apart until you can be with her again.

You're brewing and simmering when you leave your home, floating up high, watching the dark clouds swirl slowly above as you regain your hold on the power you once tasted. You welcome it into every fiber of your being, wishing it could fill up the gaping hole inside you. You come to a halt and charge your wands. The first thing you destroy is the mansion you shared with her. You don't stop until it's nothing but a wound in the earth below.

It’s not long before you have company and barely think twice before you fire a hot blast of black and white light down at the figure flying up to meet you. Your vision blurs with outrage. You see the face of your mother before you, and you’re sobbing again and you immediately punch a hole through her middle with a blinding magic beam. She’s close to the age your mother was when you lost her, now, and in your state it’s unbearable to even watch as her body plummets aimlessly. Inane. She’ll be alive and well in minutes.  
  
You cast off into the sky, bringing sprawling clouds teeming with shadows of eldritch limbs, to the settlement close by and you raze streaks into the ground with your angry wands. More must die. It feels like moments later when there are more figures circling around you, little more than color to your black-stained eyes. You hear your brother’s voice and that wrings out another debilitating stab of pain inside you and you can’t handle it. A strong hand grabs your wrist and in your haze you can’t react quick enough before a wand is wrenched from your grasp. In response, your other wand looses a fatal blow to the angry, red static in front of you.

You breathe for a few moments, goals swimming and rippling through your head, the waters growing more and more murky as the whispers grow louder and louder and it would be so sweet to revel in them, and give yourself up fully. Maybe that way, you wouldn’t feel the agony of being alone.

Something strong and cold tackles you from behind, restraining you, squeezing your arms firmly to your torso so you can’t fight back. You hear a voice that threatens to knock the smoke from your head, cutting through the white noise. And you almost laugh as you’re hurtling to the ground, to a nearby small mountain, far from where you could hurt anyone. Of course it would be her. Really, it couldn’t be anyone BUT her.

She shrieks at you, rightfully so. Says she can’t fucking believe you. How dare you be so selfish for doing this, and yes, she knows exactly what you’re fucking doing. How dare you act like you’re the only one suffering from this. How dare you Lalonde, how dare you when I knew her first. Just because I fucked up with her doesn’t mean I don’t get to miss her. You melodramatic royal bitch.

You think you laugh somewhere in all of this, clutching your last wand to your body firmly as she berates you with her grandeur fervor. You laugh as wet spots seep through to your shoulder and she cries, fairy wings churning at full power as you both descend.

You’re thrust to the hard ground unceremoniously, and by the time you try to rise to your feet, her deep blue sword is at your throat. You so very much want to just beg her for it. But you can’t do anything that could break your wicked facade. It has to be Just. You have to be cruel.

I can’t fucking believe you’d make us lose both of you, she snarls, sounding like she’s the one in agony. Your silly human family, all of us. Even fucking Vantas is doing a better job of being a decent person and not, I don’t know, trying to get himself perma-killed while hurting innocent people and murdering his fucking friends just to make it happen.

Her words sting. They do. You want to sob and hold her, mourn in the way you’re supposed to, but you just can’t. More trails of ink drip from your eyes. You grip your wand and raise it, trembling, waiting. She takes a deep, pained breath and there are tears at her eyes. She says one last thing before she plunges her sword through your chest and you respond with a deadly ray of light through hers.  
  
“I wonder if this makes _my_ death a Heroic one.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was just an offhand idea that I couldn't let sit. Maybe there is similar stuff out there(it seems like SUCH a plausible scenario) but oh well.


End file.
